


only up when you're not down (don't wanna fly if you're still on the ground)

by fakecharliebrown



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Childhood Memories, Coming Out, Gen, Growing Up, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Insecurity, M/M, Minor Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Nonbinary Kita Shinsuke, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, aka the whole fic, and osamu never lets atsumu use it, except for the part where it gets gay, the miya twins share one brain cell between them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakecharliebrown/pseuds/fakecharliebrown
Summary: Osamu never really cared about looking just like Atsumu. They didn’t look exactly alike, no matter what anybody said. Atsumu’s hairline is higher on his forehead than Osamu’s, and Osamu seems to be stuck with more baby fat than Atsumu ever has been. For as long as Osamu can remember, he and Atsumu have always been aware of their differences and they have always been content with them, content with looking like each other to the rest of the world because they didn’t look the same to themselves.And then at age eight, Atsumu comes home from a friend’s house and declares, loudly, that he doesn’t want to look like Osamu anymore.or; Osamu, and the evolution of a brotherly bond over the course of his lifetime so far.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Osamu, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 45
Kudos: 320





	only up when you're not down (don't wanna fly if you're still on the ground)

**Author's Note:**

> title from im only me when im with you by taylor swift :>

Atsumu discovers volleyball at age six, when he encounters one in the garage at home and asks their father about it. Their father is all-too-willing to tell the twins all about his high school volleyball exploits, about the joys of the game and the crushing defeat and Atsumu’s eyes _sparkle_ throughout the whole exchange. Osamu is indifferent at the time, too occupied eating his after-school snack to really care either way about what his father is talking about.

It isn’t until later, when the two of them are supposed to be sleeping that Atsumu crawls into Osamu’s bed on the opposite side of the room, plops himself down next to Osamu’s head, and asks, “D’ya wanna play volleyball?” 

Osamu stares balefully up at his brother, and mourns the slumber that he had been just about to fall into. “No,” he says. “Lemme sleep.” 

Atsumu puffs his cheeks out in his customary pout, frowning as Osamu turns onto his side, his back toward his twin. 

“I didn’ mean right now,” Atsumu whines. “Tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Osamu says. He can already feel himself getting hungry, and sighs. He may only be six years old, but Osamu has come to realize that sleeping, for him, is a race against his own bottomless hunger. If he doesn’t fall asleep fast enough, he’ll get hungry and toss and turn for hours. 

Atsumu cheers, softly, and wraps Osamu into an awkward side-hug. Osamu tolerates it for a second or two before shoving him off, telling him to go to bed. Atsumu falls backward off the bed, and cries big, fat crocodile tears about how mean Osamu is when their father comes in to see what all the ruckus is about. 

As always, Atsumu doesn’t get in trouble for being an instigator, and Osamu falls asleep hungry.

-

Osamu and Atsumu have always done everything together. From clothes to after-school activities to bedding to stuffed animals, there’s always been two of everything in their home. It was easier for their father’s peace of mind if he didn’t have to worry about keeping their preferences straight, if he didn’t have to remember that Osamu didn’t like the texture of denim but Atsumu hated the way everything else itched his skin and Osamu liked to play with the printing on his graphic t-shirts so they were always more chipped than Atsumu’s and Atsumu got upset when the picture on his shirt was messed up.

Osamu never really cared about looking just like Atsumu. They didn’t look _exactly_ alike, no matter what anybody said. Atsumu’s hairline is higher on his forehead than Osamu’s, and Osamu seems to be stuck with more baby fat than Atsumu ever has been. For as long as Osamu can remember, he and Atsumu have always been aware of their differences and they have always been content with them, content with looking like each other to the rest of the world because they didn’t look the same to themselves. 

And then at age eight, Atsumu comes home from a friend’s house and declares, loudly, that he doesn’t want to look like Osamu anymore. 

“Atsumu,” their father says, placing Osamu’s plate in front of him at the table as Atsumu clambers onto the chair next to him and waits patiently for his own helping of dinner. Osamu says a polite thanks before he begins eating, eyeing Atsumu out of the corner of his eye. “What’s all this about?” 

Atsumu puffs his cheeks out, his Tier Two pout. Tier One is when he pokes the tip of his tongue out of his mouth, his eyebrows furrowed. Tier Three is usually when his lower lip starts to wobble, and Tier Four is rarely seen. It usually involves tears, and it only makes an appearance when either all of the other options have been exhausted and proven futile or when he really, really wants something. 

Atsumu has perfected the guilt trip. At this point, the only person it doesn’t work on is Osamu.

“‘M sick of lookin’ like ‘Samu,” Atsumu huffs, pouting as their father hands him a plate of food. Atsumu says his own thanks before he stuffs a piece of fish into his mouth, frowning. “I wanna be my own person.”

“Ya _are_ yer own person, Atsumu,” their father says, taking his seat at the table across front he twins and beginning to eat his portion. Osamu, by this point, is already halfway done with his. 

“Nuh-uh,” Atsumu insists. “I look exactly like ‘Samu!”

“Yer twins,” their father points out, as Osamu shoves a bite of rice into his mouth and chews slowly, studying the grooves of the tabletop instead of Atsumu’s face. “Just ‘cause ya look alike don’t mean yer the same.” 

Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest and huffs, escalating to somewhere between Tier Two and Tier Three. “Everybody thinks we are,” he mumbles. “I wan’ my own friends! My own clothes!”

“Atsumu, c’mon,” their father pleads, a pinch between his eyebrows. “Be reasonable. Ya’ve never cared ‘bout this stuff before.”

“Well I care _now,”_ Atsumu huffs, and there it is: Tier Three, in all of its wobbling-lip glory. Their father stares at Atsumu for another long moment before finally, he sighs, and runs a hand down his face. 

“Alright, fine,” he says. “I’ll take ya out shoppin’ for some new clothes on Saturday.”

Atsumu whoops, all signs of distress gone from his face. Osamu finishes his meal, stares down at his empty plate, and, for the first time in possibly his whole eight years alive, doesn’t ask for another helping.

-

Osamu is sitting on his bed trying to do his math homework when Atsumu comes into the room, slightly damp from the rain outside. Atsumu shucks his raincoat and his schoolbag near the foot of his bed before he clambers into Osamu’s, draping himself over Osamu’s back like an ugly, clingy koala.

Osamu huffs, shoving Atsumu’s arms out of the way of his work. He’s long since given up trying to make Atsumu stop hanging off of him at every opportunity; Atsumu is clingy, though his touch is often the bruising kind Osamu isn’t entirely fond of. His touch didn’t used to be this rough, but for some reason, Atsumu’s rather lean frame is deceiving, hiding how strong Atsumu really has become. Osamu is still chubby, still fighting a losing battle against the baby fat clinging to his cheeks and his hips. 

“Ya’ve gotta stop doin’ this,” Osamu grunts, scribbling out an answer to one of the questions on his homework sheet. “We ain’t five anymore, ‘Tsumu.” 

“So ya don’t love me anymore?” Atsumu wails, burying his face in the back of Osamu’s neck. Osamu sighs heavily, and elects not to respond.

Several minutes pass, the only sound being the light drizzle of the rain outside the window. The sky is getting darker as the hour passes further into evening, until the yellow light of the bedside lamp is the only thing illuminating the room. 

Eventually, Atsumu turns his head to face the wall, instead of keeping it hidden underneath Osamu’s hairline. He takes a deep breath in, the only warning that he’s about to speak and shatter the silence that enveloped the two of them. “Are we still gonna play volleyball in middle school?” Atsumu asks. 

Osamu scoffs. “What kinda dumb question is that?” he replies. “As if ya’d ever let me stop.”

Atsumu huffs. “But d’you even like it?” 

Osamu pauses. “‘Course I do,” he replies. “Volleyball is fun.” Although, he has been suspecting lately that Atsumu likes it more than Osamu. He’s always known that Atsumu was just that little bit more invested in it, just that little bit more interested in their father's stories, just that little bit more willing to go the extra mile at practice and work that little bit harder to perfect his sets and receives and serves. But it’s really becoming obvious as of late.

But he’s only ten, so things like that don’t matter yet. It doesn’t _matter_ why Atsumu is willing to give his everything for volleyball and Osamu isn’t. It just matters that volleyball is fun, and hanging out with Atsumu is fun, so being on the same volleyball team as his twin is a win-win situation. 

Atsumu sighs, and Osamu finally shoves his brother off. “Go do yer homework, stupid. I ain’t gonna let ya copy off me just ‘cause ya were too busy bein’ emo to do it yerself.”

Atsumu sticks out his tongue as he makes his way back over to his bed, dragging his bag up onto the mattress with him. “Yer a meanie, ‘Samu.”

“And yer an idiot, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu replies automatically, returning his attention to his homework. 

-

Osamu looks up from the book he’s been reading at the sound of approaching footsteps, a familiar gait. Atsumu plops down on the bench beneath the tree beside Osamu, a frown marring his normally relaxed features. Osamu furrows his eyebrows slightly, taking in his brother’s appearance and trying to decide whether or not this is one of his evolving pouts or genuine upset. The pouts don’t look the same as they used to now that the two of them are 12 and nearly all of Atsumu’s baby fat has melted away (Osamu is beginning to suspect that he himself is just chubby at this point, and it isn't that he has more baby fat than Atsumu).

Just in case, Osamu slots the bookmark between the pages of his book and says, “Okay. Spill.”

Atsumu groans theatrically, and Osamu squints at him to see if he stopped reading for nothing, but something in the way Atsumu’s face twists makes Osamu suspect that this is about as genuine as his twin gets. Which is to say, still vaguely fake and annoying, but Osamu supposes it’s better than nothing. 

“I think I have a crush,” Atsumu finally blurts. The two of them are mostly alone; Osamu’s preferred reading spot is in one of the more unpopular locations on the school campus, so people tend to leave him alone during lunch breaks. There are a few other students on the opposite side of the courtyard, curled up in the shadows beneath the larger tree, but they’re too far away to hear or care about whatever Atsumu has to share. Osamu suspects that’s why Atsumu has come to him here; whenever he has something truly important to say, something he only wants Osamu to hear, he never says it at home, for fear of their father overhearing. 

“Okay,” Osamu says, waiting to hear why this is a bad thing. Atsumu’s had several crushes in the past, all of which he’s been absolutely over the moon about and Osamu has had to painfully sit through hours-long conversations in which he gushes about his latest girlfriend, only to then a week later have to listen to Atsumu be sad and emotional over their break-up. Osamu, on the other hand, has had no crushes and doesn’t plan to start anytime soon. Catching feelings is an Atsumu thing to do, and Osamu is nothing like Atsumu. 

Atsumu casts a quick glance in the direction of the small friend group on the other side of the courtyard, then all around, as if he’s checking to see if anybody else is listening, before he leans forward, cupping his hand around his mouth, and whispers in Osamu’s ear, “I have a crush on a guy.”

Osamu rolls his eyes as Atsumu sits back, opening his book again. “Yanno, for a minute there, I thought ya actually had somethin’ important to tell me.”

Atsumu huffs, his frown deepening. “This _is_ important, ‘Samu!”

Osamu scoffs. “So what? Ya think guys are hot. Doesn’t everybody?”

Atsumu’s prolonged silence prompts Osamu to look up, only to see Atsumu staring at him with the most annoyed, disgusted, and simultaneously shocked and confused expression Osamu has ever seen. Osamu wasn’t even aware it was possible for one scowl to portray so much emotion.

After a few seconds, Atsumu says, “No, ‘Samu. They don’t.” 

Osamu blinks, turning to stare down at the book in his lap. “Oh,” he mumbles. “So—this ain’t normal?”

Atsumu coughs. “Uh—generally the majority of the population isn’t gay, ‘Samu.”

Osamu hums. “Well, _we_ are.” 

Atsumu snorts. “Yer an idiot, ‘Samu.” 

“And yer mean, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu replies. The two of them blink at each other, before dissolving into snickering laughter. Once he’s calmed down enough to return his attention to his book, Osamu says, “Go on, ‘Tsumu. I know ya wanna tell me all about him.”

Atsumu grins. “Oh, god, ‘Samu, he’s so _pretty_!” 

-

Osamu frowns at his reflection as Atsumu comes barreling into the bathroom, reaching around Osamu to grab his toothbrush and toothpaste before perching himself on the edge of the tub to brush his teeth. Osamu reaches up to poke his cheek, his eyebrows furrowing at the way it squishes _._ He’s fourteen. He’s not supposed to _squish_ anymore. _Atsumu_ doesn’t squish, so what's wrong with Osamu that he does?

Atsumu squints at him, and through a mouthful of toothbrush and toothpaste, asks. “What’re ya starin’ at, ‘Samu? Ya ain’t that pretty.”

“We have the same face, jackass,” Osamu huffs. He frowns again, squinting at the way his jaw seems to round off where Atsumu’s is straight and sharp. 

Atsumu finishes brushing his teeth and spits the toothpaste in the toilet before he wipes his mouth on the towel hanging nearby and flushes the toilet, raising an eyebrow as Osamu cringes. 

“Yer disgusting, yanno that?” Osamu asks. “Ya coulda asked me to move.”

“Ya seemed busy with yer Snow White moment,” Atsumu dismisses, tugging his school uniform on. “Didn’t wanna bug ya.”

Osamu sighs, before he reaches to grab his tie and pulls his blazer on. Everything of his is a size bigger than Atsumu’s now, even though when they were little their clothes were practically interchangeable. Osamu isn’t sure why it bugs him that they aren’t the same anymore. 

“I dunno if I should go out for volleyball in high school,” Osamu starts, as the two of them pack their things for school and slowly migrate across the house toward the front door. 

Atsumu grunts. “The hell? Why wouldn’t ya?”

Osamu shrugs. “I don’t really have a good volleyball body, yanno? I ain’t like you.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Atsumu retorts. “And I’ve heard ya say that ya thought everybody was born gay.” 

“Ain't ya ever gonna let that one go?” Osamu mutters, running a nervous hand through his hair. He follows Atsumu out of the house as they begin their trek to school, the morning air chilly even with his uniform blazer on. 

Atsumu shoves Osamu suddenly. “Don’t try n’ change the subject, dumbass,” he drawls. “Where’d all this ‘volleyball body’ bull come from, anyway?”

Osamu shrugs, hunching in on himself just slightly. “I don’t look like you, ‘Tsumu,” he says. “I’m all— _squishy._ Ain’t we s’posed to look the same?”

Atsumu squints at him. “And ya think bein’...squishy...is a bad thing?”

“How could it not be?” Osamu replies. “Nobody ever looks at me the way they look at you.”

“First of all,” Atsumu says, stopping and tugging Osamu off of the path. “Nobody looks at ya because ya literally cease to exist whenever we ain’t actively in class. _I_ have to work to find ya, and we’re s’posed to be, like, telepathic or some shit.”

Osamu shifts, averting his eyes. 

“Second of all,” Atsumu continues, putting both of his hands on Osamu’s shoulders. “Yer squishiness is what makes ya so great for hugs ‘n stuff. Ain’t nobody that wants to hug me, ‘M too bony and angular. Yer like a big ol’ teddy bear.” 

“I don’t wanna be good for fuckin’ hugs,” Osamu huffs. “I wanna be worth more than that.”

“Ya _are,”_ Atsumu insists. “Stop talkin’ bad about yer body or else I’ll kill ya.”

Osamu says nothing, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

Atsumu huffs, pulling Osamu by the hand back onto the sidewalk to resume their trek to school. “I’ll make ya see the truth someday,” he promises. “I’ll just make ya hug me a million times to prove it.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Whatever, idiot,” he huffs. But he has to admit, that even as Atsumu squawks and calls him mean and pokes him in the cheek, and Osamu slaps his hand away, he really does feel better, now that he’s talked to Atsumu. He still doesn’t really like his body, doesn’t like that he squishes where Atsumu doesn’t even though they’re supposed to be identical, but—

He’s perfect for hugging, like a big teddy bear. 

“What’re ya grinnin’ ‘bout, ‘Samu?” Atsumu asks, draping himself over Osamu’s shoulder and poking Osamu’s dimpled cheek. Osamu swats at his hand half-heartedly. 

“Nothin’, ya big dope,” he huffs. “I dunno what yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

-

Osamu smacks Atsumu on the back of the head as he walks by to retrieve his water bottle, ignoring Atsumu’s indignant cry. 

“What was that for?” Atsumu demands, pouting up at Osamu. It’s a weak one, probably Tier One or lower.

“Quit starin’ at Suna’s ass,” Osamu drawls. Atsumu flushes bright pink. 

“I wasn't—”

“‘Kay, then stop starin’ at Aran’s,” Osamu remedies. “Ya were starin’ at one of ‘em.”

Atsumu huffs, sucking on his water bottle. “Yer so mean, ‘Samu.”

“And yer so idiotic, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu replies, disinterested. “Since when do ya even have a crush on one of the other guys? Thought ya were hung up on that guy from the trainin’ camp.”

“I was not,” Atsumu retorts. “Quit makin’ baseless accusations, ‘Samu.” 

Osamu rolls his eyes. “They ain’t baseless if it’s obvious, dipshit.” 

Atsumu mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?” Osamu asks, cupping a hand around his ear. “I didn’t hear ya.”

“I said ya talk real big for a dumbfuck who’s head over heels for the cap’n,” Atsumu retorts, loudly. Osamu jerks, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening before he socks Atsumu on the shoulder with a heavy punch. 

“Watch yer fuckin’ mouth, ‘Tsumu!” he hisses, as Atsumu whines about how much the punch hurt.

“‘Samu’s so mean,” Atsumu wails. Osamu rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. 

“Osamu, Atsumu,” Kita calls, and Osamu shoves Atsumu when his twin tries to give him a suggestive side eye. He pretends his face isn’t flushing like a middle schooler’s as Kita turns to approach the two of them. “Would you two mind stayin’ after with me to help me clean?” Kita asks. “Aran normally does, but he’s visitin’ his granny.”

Atsumu grins, and Osamu’s stomach turns. That’s Atsumu’s grin #87: nefarious plotting, which almost never ends well for Osamu. 

“I’d love to, Kita, but ‘M afraid I’m terribly busy,” Atsumu drawls, his grin simpering into something sickly sweet that almost makes Osamu gag to look at. “But ‘Samu, here, would _love_ to help ya. Isn’t that right, ‘Samu?”

Osamu shoots Atsumu a glare before he turns to Kita and says, “Sure.” 

Kita smiles softly, and Osamu thinks his heart is going to climb all the way up his throat and out of his mouth. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

They turn away then, off to go resume practice for the rest of the team's timeslot. Osamu watches them go, aware of Atsumu snickering at him the entire time.

“I’m gonna kill ya,” Osamu says lightly. 

“Sure,” Atsumu replies. “I’ll remind ya at the weddin’.”

-

It isn’t that Osamu and Atsumu never fight. They fight frequently, about inconsequential things like who ate the last pudding and whose shirt turned the wash pink (Atsumu, both times). 

It’s only that they’ve never fought like this, where it’s come to physical blows and taken their poor father’s intervention to finally pry them apart. After, once they’ve cooled down somewhat and gotten their faces bandaged up, their father dumps the both of them in their shared bedroom and says, “Dinner’s in thirty minutes.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, but they still get the message; they’re expected to have made up by then.

They sit in stony silence for several minutes. Osamu bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes something metallic, refusing to be the one to speak first.

Lucky for him, Atsumu’s always been allergic to silence. “I can’t believe yer ditchin’ volleyball.” 

Osamu sighs. “I don’t know what ya want me to tell ya, ‘Tsumu.” 

“What the hell else’re ya gonna do with yer life?” Atsumu demands. “‘S not like yer good at anythin’ else!” 

Osamu reels. He reminds himself that Atsumu always loses his cool when he’s upset, always lashes out when he’s angry or hurt, but—he doesn’t care. Not today. Not anymore. He’s had to tolerate Atsumu’s bullshit for eighteen fucking years; he’s tired of being hurt by the twin who’s constantly leaving him behind. 

“‘S not yer life, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu hisses. “I can do whatever I want.”

“Yer leavin’ me!” Atsumu insists. “For what? A dream ya don’t even know you’ll be any good at?” 

“And how d’ya know you’ll be any good in the pro circuit?” Osamu demands, even though they’ve both known for months now that Atsumu would likely get scouted straight out of high school. 

“Ya love volleyball,” Atsumu says. “ _We_ love volleyball.”

“I never wanted volleyball to be my whole life!” Osamu exclaims. “I ain’t like you, ‘Tsumu.”

“'Course yer like me!” Atsumu retorts. “We’re the same fuckin’ person!” 

“No, we ain’t,” Osamu spits. “We haven’t looked the same since we were in fuckin’ diapers. We haven’t acted the same in even longer.”

“We’ve always done everythin’ together,” Atsumu says, his voice suddenly taking on a pleading tone. 

“When we were eight, ya came home and said ya were sick of bein’ like me,” Osamu snaps. “Ya dyed yer hair when we were twelve ‘cause one of the teachers thought ya were me on accident. Yer incapable of lettin’ yerself be like me, ‘Tsumu. Don’t try and use it to win yer argument, ya jackass.”

“That’s not true,” Atsumu says immediately. 

“Ain't it?” Osamu asks, tilting his head to the side. He sighs, running a hand through his hair—the only habit the both of them still share, the only habit Atsumu never quite shook. “Ya’ve always hated havin’ to share the spotlight with me, ‘Tsumu. I’m sayin’ ya won’t have to ever again. Ain’t ya happy, now?”

Atsumu opens his mouth to respond, but their father calling them for dinner cuts him off. He waits a moment once their father finishes, before he gets up off of his bed and heads for the door. Just before he’s left the room, he turns over his shoulder and says, “‘Course I ain’t happy, ‘Samu. Yer a lot meaner than I thought ya were.” 

Osamu stares at the place he’d been just a moment ago, and murmurs, “Yer a lot stupider than I thought. Guess we’re even.”

Atsumu moves his things into the spare bedroom down the hall. The fight's over, but Osamu doesn’t think they’ll ever be the same. 

-

“That’s the last of it,” Osamu’s father says, placing the last box on the kitchen table in his little apartment. He pauses, glancing at Osamu before he asks, “Yer sure yer ready for this? Yanno, yer brother’s still livin’ at home when he ain’t playin’, nothin’ sayin’ ya can’t do the same.”

Osamu turns to his father and forces a grin he doesn’t quite feel. “‘M twenty years old. I’ll be fine. Gotta start the business somewhere, yeah?”

His father smiles, a gleam of pride shining in his eyes. “M proud of ya, Osamu. Yer gonna go n’ make somethin’ of yerself.” He pauses and chuckles, scratching at the stubbly beard on the edge of his jaw. “I used to worry ya’d spend yer whole life sittin’ in Atsumu’s shadow.”

Osamu frowns slightly, his forced positivity faltering. “Nah,” he says. “Thanks for yer help movin’. Shouldn’t ya be gettin’ back to the station, since ya wanna be home by sundown?”

“Yeah,” his father agrees. “Just lemme look at ya a minute more, yeah? ‘S gonna be weird not seein’ yer face every day.”

“I know,” Osamu mumbles. His father grins down at him, before he sighs and pulls Osamu in for a tight hug, squeezing him a little more than is comfortable before he steps back. Atsumu inherited his bruising touch from their father, but neither Osamu nor their father are sure where Atsumu got the clinginess. 

“Yer welcome home anytime,” his father tells him one last time. “I love ya, Osamu.” 

“Love you, too, Dad,” Osamu says, waving as his father turns to leave. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Osamu takes a moment to survey the apartment.

It’s quiet, almost eerily so. Osamu’s never considered himself an altogether loud person, never really felt bothered by quiet the same way Atsumu always was. Something about being Atsumu’s twin brother made it hard to be a loud person. Osamu wouldn’t necessarily call himself reserved, not like he’d call Kita, or antisocial, like Suna, but—Atsumu had always taken up so much of the spotlight that there wasn’t really anything left for Osamu. They always had the same skills, same abilities, same smarts, but Atsumu was just that little bit more passionate about everything he put himself into, and Osamu never learned how to make himself care the same way.

But sometimes Osamu thinks there are other things he never learned how to do, thanks to a life living half-inside of Atsumu’s shadow, just like his father said he did. For one thing, he doesn’t think he’ll ever really know how to take up space like Atsumu did, or fill the silence like Atsumu.

He’d always viewed Atsumu as a tolerable annoyance, something he had to deal with and something he loved, despite how infuriating Atsumu could tend to be. Osamu thinks that, for how much it hurt the day Atsumu first said that he was sick of being like Osamu, a small part of Osamu has always longed for something more than the life he led sitting at Atsumu’s side. Atsumu was loud, and outgoing, and confident, and the center of attention in every room he walked into. By comparison, Osamu was quieter, more reserved, harder to talk to. Everybody loved Atsumu. Nobody even knew Osamu was alive. 

Their home was always the loudest place, in Osamu’s little world. At school, he could slip away to the secluded areas, could hang out by himself whenever he wanted because Atsumu had about a million friends and admirers to talk to all before the end of the lunch period. But at home, when Osamu was the only one subject to Atsumu’s boisterous attitude, it almost felt like Osamu couldn’t escape the noise. Hell, even at night Atsumu used to keep Osamu awake whispering to him about any random thought that popped in his head, never able to sleep in a timely fashion the way Osamu longed to.

And now Osamu is here. Alone. And it’s quiet.

A strange feeling washes over him; he’s acutely aware that this, right here, is what he’s been longing for his whole life—his own space, some peace and _quiet—_ and now that he has it, now that he’s surrounded by silence—it feels strange. Wrong. Like Osamu is a puzzle piece from a different picture, trying to insert himself into a place he doesn’t belong. 

He and Atsumu haven’t been on the best of terms in months, have been separated for months. Osamu has been _alone_ for months. And somehow, it’s only sinking in now how truly _quiet_ the world is without Atsumu. Maybe it had been something about their old, shared bedroom that kept Atsumu’s stupid voice echoing in Osamu’s mind, maybe it had been something about their father’s presence that kept Osamu from feeling as isolated as he does in this moment. Truthfully, Osamu doesn’t know _why_ it’s all hitting him now. He just knows that it _is._

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Osamu pulls it out, and sees Kita’s name flash across the screen. He pauses, furrowing his brows, but swipes his thumb to answer the call, anyway. 

“Hello?” he grunts, scrubbing a tired hand down his face. 

“ _Hello,”_ Kita’s voice responds. It sounds slightly muffled, as if they're standing outside and the microphone is picking up the wind. “ _How was the move?”_

“Fine,” Osamu replies, pulling out a chair to take his seat. It’s only mid afternoon; he’d been planning to do some unpacking today, but suddenly he’s far too tired to even fathom the idea of it. “Dad came up and helped me unload the boxes.”

“ _That was nice of him,”_ Kita says. _“I apologize for being unable to help ya.”_

“‘S okay,” Osamu replies. “Yer busy with the field. I wouldn’t want to trouble ya.” 

“ _Yer my friend, Osamu,_ ” Kita says. “ _I want to be able to help my friends._ ”

Osamu huffs out a laugh. “I ain’t yer friend, silly. I’m yer boyfriend.”

“ _Right_ ,” Kita drawls, thinly veiled amusement in their voice. “ _How could I forget?_ ”

“Dunno,” Osamu replies. “Think all that rice is gettin’ to yer brain.”

Kita laughs, and Osamu revels in the sound. It warms his quiet apartment, warms the tips of his toes that have gone numb from the cold. It’s much colder here in the city than it was back home, the heat much less regulated in the apartment than it was in Osamu’s childhood home.

“ _I’ll be up to help you unpack the store,”_ Kita promises. _“The ducks needed me today.”_

Osamu grins at the thought of the ducks that live in Kita’s field. They were supposed to do something to help with irrigation, or something like that; Osamu had been more interested in watching the light dance in Kita’s eyes than the actual explanation. Kita had named them all, asking Osamu for help even though they rejected every name Osamu suggested. Something about using Osamu’s opinion to help them understand what they really wanted. Osamu didn’t care either way; he was just happy to see the soft smile on Kita’s face as they anointed each and every little duckling with a name.

Osamu huffs out a breath as the both of them fall silent. “‘S it weird I don’t really wanna unpack just yet?”

_“Why not?”_ Kita asks. 

“‘Cause,” Osamu states plainly. “‘S like unpacking makes it real.”

Kita pauses. “ _Makes what real?”_

Osamu shrugs, even though Kita can’t see him. “‘Tsumu ain’t here. It makes it real that I’m—I’m alone, now.”

“ _Oh,”_ Kita breathes. 

“‘M I even a person when I ain’t ‘Tsumu’s twin?” Osamu wonders. “Did I make a mistake movin’ away from him? Quittin’ volleyball?”

“ _I don’t expect ya to understand this now,”_ Kita says, “ _but I think you’ll realize soon enough that this is a good thing. It’s good to learn how to be Osamu, and Atsumu. Separately.”_

“Maybe,” Osamu replies.

“ _Do me a favor,”_ Kita says, “ _and unpack one box today. Just one. You can take it slowly; ya’ve got the rest of yer life to figure out who ya are on yer own.”_

“Right,” Osamu says. “I should do that before I fall asleep. Love ya, Kita. See ya soon.”

“ _Love you,”_ Kita parrots. Their words are followed by a faint quack. “ _Daisy says hi.”_

Osamu chuckles. “Tell Daisy I said hello,” he says. “I’ll see ya soon, okay?”

“ _M’kay,_ ” Kita replies. “ _Have a good day._ ” The line clicks, and then it goes dead. 

The silence returns. Osamu sighs. He’s beginning to understand why Atsumu’s always hated this.

-

Atsumu only visits the shop in the mornings, before Osamu has had a chance to open the front doors yet. He has his own key that Osamu had made for him a while back, a duplicate that’ll let Atsumu in through the back door so that he doesn’t attract customers too early. 

Osamu is wiping down the counter when he hears the back door open and shut, followed by the sound of Atsumu’s approaching footsteps. Osamu tips his head in greeting as Atsumu plops down in a chair at the counter, drumming his fingertips against the tabletop. 

“Ya wanna try the new flavor?” Osamu offers. Atsumu lights up. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Can ya make my favorite, too?”

“Oi, so demandin’,” Osamu mumbles, already heading back to prepare two onigiri for his brother. This is their usual routine: Atsumu visits once every couple of weeks, Osamu prepares him an onigiri or two, and they chat until Osamu has to open the shop and Atsumu takes his leave to go to practice. Osamu wonders sometimes if it’s okay that Atsumu shows up late to practice this often, but Atsumu assures him that he’s apparently worked something out with the coach that he gets a couple hours to himself every once in a while. 

Osamu suspects it’s more an effort to keep Atsumu out of the gym 24/7. He knows his brother, and he knows that it’s a given that Atsumu hasn’t changed his rigorous practice routine since high school. 

When Osamu has finished the onigiri, he brings them over to Atsumu on a plate and hands them to his brother, leaning back against the counter behind him as he watches Atsumu take a bite of the new flavor. Atsumu chews thoughtfully, before his customary grin spreads across his face. 

“New flavor’s good!” he chirps, taking another bite. Osamu chuckles, picking up his rag to continue wiping down the tables in the shop. Atsumu keeps eating, and they coexist in silence like that. Osamu thinks separation has been good for them; they’re slowly but surely making their way back to where they were before, when silence was comfortable and Osamu knew what Atsumu was thinking even before he said it. Osamu doesn’t think they’ll be quite as attached at the hip as they were as children, but he also thinks that might be a good thing. Maybe Kita was right, two years ago when they told Osamu that it’d be good for them to figure out who they were without the other one to fall back on. 

“‘Samu,” Atsumu starts, drawing Osamu out of his thoughts. Osamu looks up to see Atsumu watching him, having finished both of the onigiri. 

“What?” Osamu grunts, polishing the edge of a table before moving onto the next. 

“I think I’m in love,” Atsumu says. Osamu pauses, straightening up to look at his twin. 

“Are ya?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Atsumu nods, fiddling with the string of his hoodie. “I think I’m in love with someone who ain’t a girl.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “So am I, ‘Tsumu. Ya ain’t special.” 

Atsumu groans, tugging his hood over his head and down his forehead so that it covers his eyes. “Agh, ‘Samu, why’re ya so annoyin’ all the time? ‘M tryin’ to be serious here!”

“It’s not a good look for ya,” Osamu replies, scrubbing an odd dark spot on the surface of the table. 

Atsumu sticks his tongue out at Osamu. “Yer the worst brother ever.”

“I know,” Osamu says. “I take pride in makin’ yer life miserable.”

Atsumu sticks his tongue out again.

“Put yer tongue away, rat,” Osamu huffs. “Yer contaminatin’ the air quality in here.”

Atsumu pouts, turning away with his arms crossed. “Ya never take me seriously,” he whines.

“Ya always make a mountain out of a molehill, dumbass,” Osamu retorts. 

Atsumu wrinkles his nose. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Osamu rolls his eyes, hard enough that he feels a little dizzy. “It means yer makin’ a big deal outta nothin’.”

“It’s not nothin’!” Atsumu protests. Osamu slings his rag over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Atsumu. 

“‘S just love,” he says. “It ain’t gonna kill ya.”

“Ya don’t know that,” Atsumu argues. 

“‘M fairly certain,” Osamu replies. 

Atsumu sighs and turns to stare at the countertop, tracing nonsensical shapes in the shining surface. Osamu gazes at him critically, before he eventually caves and asks, “Alright. I’ll bite. What's eatin’ ya?” 

“‘M in love with a guy,” Atsumu says, tracing figure eights with the tip of his indeed finger. “Who’s a teammate. Which is already bad, ‘cause yer not s’posed to date yer teammates.”

“Okay,” Osamu says, waiting for Atsumu to continue.

“But I was thinkin’,” Atsumu says, his voice smaller than it was a moment ago. “‘N I realized—I can’t ever be my real self.”

Osamu furrows his eyebrows. “Whaddya mean?”

“I can’t be bi,” Atsumu tells him. “Not in public. ‘N if I end up datin’ a guy, the world can’t ever know, ‘cause I could lose my job. I could lose everything.”

Osamu frowns. “That’s always been the reality, ‘Tsumu.”

“Yeah but—” Atsumu trails off, pressing his lips into a thin line. He stares at the countertop for a moment longer before turning wide, imploring eyes on Osamu. “Did I make the wrong choice, ‘Samu? I coulda—I coulda been a coach, or an instructor. Goin’ pro wasn’t the only way to keep volleyball in my life.”

“Coachin’ ain’t the same as playin’ n’ ya know that,” Osamu reminds him. 

Atsumu hunches his shoulders, puffing out his cheeks. “Ya don’t get it,” he mumbles. “Yer never gonna have to hide who yer gonna marry.” 

“I’m gay, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says flatly. “I’m not _allowed_ to get married. Besides—who cares if ya can’t be vocal about yer love? Love like that ain’t for the whole world’s eyes, anyway.”

“Then who’s it for?” Atsumu asks, his voice petulant and whiny. 

Osamu rolls his eyes, stepping forward to flick Atsumu’s forehead. As his brother wails about how mean Osamu is, Osamu says, “It’s for the person ya love, dumbass. The only people ya need to share that with are the people who care ‘bout the real you, ‘n not some shitty volleyball persona ya put up for the media.” 

“My persona ain't shitty,” Atsumu huffs, still holding his forehead. But the pout has lessened, Osamu notices. Osamu scoffs. 

“If all yer gonna do is lie, then get out,” he says. “I’ll just open early.” 

Atsumu sticks his tongue out again, and this time Osamu tugs the dirty rag off of his shoulder and uses it to swat Atsumu’s face, brushing up against his tongue and open mouth. Atsumu shrieks, crying about how disgusting it was, how mean Osamu is. Osamu just laughs.

-

The bell above the door rings, signaling Osamu to another customer. It’s a slow day, as weekdays tend to be even around the lunch hour. It isn’t until Thursday or Friday that business really picks up and Osamu often wishes he had another employee to help him out. Osamu glances up from where he’s been wiping down the counter, only to see his favorite regular walking backwards into the shop, keeping the door open with his hip. 

“Come on, Udai,” Akaashi says, sounding fondly exasperated. “I know you’re busy, but you should really get out of your house at least once a month.”

Osamu watches as Akaashi backs into the shop, pulling Udai by the wrist to come inside as well. He chuckles at the sight of Udai, hunched over with his hoodie pulled over his head and frowning severely at Akaashi as the younger man adjusts his coat and glasses.

“Good afternoon, Myaa-sama,” Akaashi greets, approaching the counter. He takes his seat, turning over his shoulder to stare balefully at Udai until he also comes to sit down. Osamu grins and tips his hat toward the two of them. 

“Afternoon, Akaashi,” he replies. “Udai. The usual?”

Akaashi hums, gazing around the shop despite having been there a hundred times before. Akaashi always comes on Wednesdays, after the usual lunch rush has dwindled and the shop is typically slow again. Sometimes, he’s able to convince Udai to come with, but for the most part he tends to come alone. He’s the only regular Osamu would call a friend, even though he tries to be friendly and welcoming to all of his customers. 

Osamu sets to work preparing their order, as Udai and Akaashi fall into conversation about Udai’s latest chapter. A short while later, Osamu presents the both of them with their finished onigiri, and goes back to wiping down the counter as he’d been before they came in. 

Akaashi eats quickly, pushing his plate to the side once he’s finished. It takes Udai a bit longer to finish, as he seems to eat in much smaller bites at a much slower pace than Akaashi. 

“How are you doing, Myaa-sama?” Akaashi asks. Osamu looks up from where he’d moved on to wiping down the cash register, and shrugs. 

“Same as always,” he says. “How’re things with y'all?”

Akaashi smiles softly. “Good,” he says. He fiddles with his ring finger, the finger where one might place an engagement ring, though Akaashi’s finger is still bare.

Osamu grins, quirking an eyebrow. “‘M I hearin’ weddin’ bells?”

Akaashi flushes. “No,” he says, stuttering just slightly.

Udai squints at him. “Didn’t Bokuto propose last week?”

Osamu gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in Atsumu-like overdramatic fashion. “Akaashi, yer holdin’ out on me!”

“I am not,” Akaashi says, still bright red. “Bokuto asked me to marry him on Friday evening on the way home from our usual date, but he didn’t have a ring and it was all very impromptu. I’m afraid it’s not a very interesting story.” 

“Ah, who cares?” Osamu asks. “Yer gettin' hitched! That’s a pretty big step, yanno.”

Akaashi hums, practically glowing. “It is a big step,” he agrees. “But I think we’re ready for it.”

Osamu grins. “‘M happy for ya, Akaashi.”

“Thank you,” Akaashi says sincerely. He clears his throat. “But enough about me; how are things with you and Kita?”

Udai blinks up at Osamu. “Kita?” he parrots.

“My datemate,” Osamu replies. “Have I really not mentioned them to you?”

Akaashi nudges Udai. “Udai doesn’t like socializing, remember?” 

Udai rolls his eyes, returning his attention to his food as Osamu chuckles. 

“Kita’s good,” Osamu tells them. “I think they're worried ‘bout one of the ducks, though. Somethin' ‘bout how Daisy keeps tryin’ to follow them into the house at the end of the day.” 

“They should let her in,” Udai mumbles into his onigiri, prompting both Akaashi and Osamu to laugh.

Once he’s regained his composure, Akaashi leans his chin on his fist and asks, “Are you and Kita ever planning on getting married?” 

Osamu falters. “I—dunno,” he admits. “We don’t really talk ‘bout things like marriage.”

Akaashi hums. “I’m fairly certain Bokuto already thinks you’re married, so I don’t think it matters either way.” His gaze drifts to his empty plate. “Say, Myaa-sama, do you think you could cater the wedding?”

Osamu snorts, mentally making a note to ask Kita how they feel about marriage sometime in the near future. 

He kind of likes the sound of wedding bells. 

-

Osamu stares at his reflection in the mirror, tugging repeatedly at the hem of his suit jacket, adjusting his tie over and over until he can’t even really tell if its straight or crooked. His cheeks puff out when he furrows his eyebrows like this, and middle school insecurities about his body suddenly creep up on Osamu, making him wonder why the fuck Kita would want to marry somebody as squishy and ugly as Osamu. 

Hell, the wedding isn't even going to be legally recognized. They're being officiated by Akaashi, because there's no point in getting a real officiant for a marriage that isn't real in the eyes of the law. 

Osamu’s halfway to calling the whole goddamn wedding off when the door slams open, and Atsumu comes barreling in, followed by Bokuto and Suna—Osamu’s other groomsmen. Atsumu stalls in the doorway, takes in Osamu’s slightly-disheveled appearance, and motions for both Bokuto and Suna to leave the room. He closes the door behind the two of them, turning to gaze at Osamu and make eye contact through the mirror. 

“What level crisis are we at?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I am the ugliest person alive and I need to call this weddin’ off, like, yesterday,” Osamu declares, sweating underneath his suit coat. "I mean, what's even the point of all this? 'S not like the law's gonna recognize us as married."

Atsumu shakes his head, approaching Osamu. He places both hand on Osamu’s shoulders, spins Osamu to face him, and holds his gaze. 

“Yer not ugly,” Atsumu tells him. “We got the same face, dipshit, n’ I ain’t hard on the eyes even a little bit. N’ yer not gonna call off the weddin’; yer marryin’ fuckin’ _Kita._ The person ya’ve been datin’ since ya were 17. It’s been _seven years._ This ain’t even a big deal at this point; it’s just a fuckin’ party with all yer friends to flex how cute ‘n sappy n’ in love ya still are after like, forever.” He pauses. "And yer gettin' married because ya wanna be married and pledge yer love to Kita for the rest of yet stinky life. Some stupid certificate ain't gonna make ya any less of a stupid sappy husband."

“Seven years ain’t forever, dumbass,” Osamu replies, after a moment passes in silence. Atsumu grins. 

“Well, if ya can still call me stupid, then clearly yer not that far gone,” he says. He takes his hands off of Osamu’s shoulders, adjusting first his tie then his suit coat. “Don’t touch yer clothes or you’ll mess ‘em up ‘n I’ll have to kill ya.”

“‘Kay,” Osamu says, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. His hands are still shaking, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Atsumu leads him over to the chaise in the room, dragging him down and wrapping himself around Osamu in a way he hasn’t since they were children, probably middle school at the latest. 

“‘M proud of ya, yanno that?” Atsumu mumbles, running a hand through Osamu’s hair. “I used to think that we were the happiest we’d ever be when we were little, ‘n it was just us against the world 'n nothin’ mattered.” 

“What changed?” Osamu asks. 

Atsumu hums. “We grew up,” he says. “‘N ya turned into yer own fuckin’ person, ‘n ya fell in love with a person who farms rice and raises ducks ‘n I realized that it’s still us against the world, but—we don’t hafta be one 'n the same anymore, yanno?”

“Mm,” Osamu replies. He pauses, thinking. “Yanno, when I first moved out, Shinsuke told me somethin’. I didn’t get it at the time, but—it makes sense now.”

“What’d they say?” Atsumu asks, now moving onto fixing the hair that he’d messed up a moment ago.

“They said it’d be good for us to figure out how to be Osamu and Atsumu separately, instead of bein’ a package deal for the rest of our lives,” Osamu tells him. “I think they were right. We ain’t the same, even though we’re twins. We don’t gotta do everythin’ together in order to prove that we love each other.” 

Atsumu knocks his head against Osamu’s shoulder. “Kita’s got ya spoutin’ all this wisdom nowadays,” he teases. “When’d ya go ‘n grow a brain, ‘Samu?” 

Osamu snorts. “Least I got one.”

Atsumu puffs out his cheeks. “Yer a meanie, ‘Samu.”

“‘N yer an idiot, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu replies. 

Later, after the ceremony when Kita and Osamu are attached at the hip and Atsumu has drunkenly draped himself all over his date, much to Sakusa’s chagrin, Osamu will call him embarrassing and claim he doesn’t want Atsumu there, claim he wishes he made Suna his best man instead and didn’t invite Atsumu. 

But for now, in this room off the main banquet hall where Osamu is getting ready and Atsumu is curled around him like an ugly, clingy koala while the other groomsmen wait in the hall and Osamu calms himself down enough to remember his vows, to remember how fucking excited he is to marry the love of his life, he can admit it to himself— 

Atsumu’s a pretty good brother, when he wants to be. Osamu wouldn’t want to share his face with anybody else.

-

The new ducklings, Osamu finds, are very yellow and very fluffy. One of them clambers into his lap where he’s sitting beside Kita, before it pulls itself into his cupped hands and quacks in his face, loudly. Osamu laughs at the little creature, maneuvering it so that he can pat its head with his index finger, careful not to hurt it.

“This one’s an asshole,” he declares. “Let’s name it ‘Tsumu.”

Kita grins at him, a sickening amount of adoration in their eyes as they scoot a little closer to pat the duckling in Osamu’s hand. “I can’t help but wonder how Atsumu will feel ‘bout that,” they say.

Osamu shrugs. “The jackass ate my puddin' when we visited Dad for the holidays,” he says. “He doesn’t get a say.”

Kita chuckles. “Whatever ya say, love,” they say, reaching to take the duckling from Osamu. “Tsumu the duckling it is.” They release Tsumu the duckling, and the two of them watch as the little bird waddles over to join its friends, turning to quack at them one last time before mingling with the others.

“Look,” Osamu says, pointing. “He even needs the last word like ‘Tsumu does.”

Kita just smiles at him, grabbing Osamu’s hand and lacing their fingers together. They glance up at the sky, the sun reflecting off of their hair and making them seem like they're glowing. Osamu doesn't think he’ll ever get sick of looking at Kita, of seeing them in the sun and in the rain and in the bed and at the kitchen table and everywhere and anywhere, because Kita looks ethereal everywhere they go. 

“C’mon," Kita murmurs. “Yer brother n’ Sakusa are visitin’ tomorrow; we gotta get the house cleaned up.”

Osamu groans, but allows Kita to pull him to his feet anyway. Once they’re standing, Osamu wraps an arm around Kita’s shoulders and pulls them up against his side, Kita reaching up to hold his hand again once their positions are settled. Together, the two of them begin the short trek back to the house from the ducks’ home near the rice field.

“Leave it to ‘Tsumu to fall in love with a germaphobe,” Osamu laments. “He’ll be inconveniencing me ‘til the day I die, I tell ya.”

Kita smiles and hums. “They’re cute though, ya gotta admit.” 

Osamu turns to nuzzle his nose in the crown of Kita’s hair. “Not as cute as we are.” 

“Of course not,” Kita replies, squeezing Osamu’s hand. “D’ya think we should invite anybody else for dinner tomorrow?” 

“Maybe next time,” Osamu replies. “‘Tsumu’ll get all bent outta shape if he doesn’t get ample time to cling onto me like the world’s ugliest koala.”

Kita chuckles. “The bond between you two never fails to amuse me,” they say, as the two of them reach the house’s front drive. 

“Yeah,” Osamu says, holding the door open for Kita to enter their house first. “We’re pretty special, ain’t we?”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be for their bday but i didnt finish it in time ;; sorry boys
> 
> anyway,,,,,,,,,,,i love the miya brothers especially osamu and this fic was very fun to write :> i hope u liked it!!
> 
> thank u to caia for helping me pick my summary, thank u to hannah banana for Also helping me pick my summary as well as putting up w all my snippets, and thank u to annaer and caspie for being moral support whenever i gush abt this fic or send random snippets with no context <3
> 
> as always, come hang out w me on tumblr @fake-charliebrown, twt @fakecharlieb, or check out my [carrd](https://fakecharliebrown.carrd.co/)


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